MORGAN
CHAPTER ONE
England
The Year of Our Lord, 1315
The steady drumbeat of rain pounded the roof, followed by a rumble of thunder, and roused Nautionnier Knight Morgan Le Aguillon from blissful slumber and an ale-induced stupor, as he stretched long and yawned. As he ordered his thoughts, after a night of drinking and wenching, his favorite pursuits, he grazed warm flesh with his toes and smiled. To his right, a supple female form posed a delicious temptation. To his left, another enticing whore snored none too elegantly, and he sat upright.
Naked, a condition he preferred to the heavy garb of his station, he rubbed his eyes, slid from the bed, belched, and scratched his bare arse. At the basin, he poured water from the pitcher, washed his face, and cleaned his teeth. After running his fingers through his hair, he collected his garb from the floor.
As he stepped into his breeches, he noticed a sliver of light filtering through a hole in the linen that covered the window, and he stepped toward the wall, peered outside—and started.
“No.”
In a strange dance, he sprang into action, yanking on his black chausses, slipping his feet into his boots, and pulling on his doublet. At last, he donned his tunic and grabbed his cloak. From a small bag, he drew a fistful of coins, tossed them atop a table, and made his exit.
On the street, he glanced at the grey sky, realized he was very late, and cursed. “Arucard is going to kill me.”
After locating his destrier, he leaped into the saddle. Flicking the reins, he heeled the flanks of his stallion and sped through the narrow thoroughfares of London, as he had not a moment to spare.
Given the amount of activity in the various businesses, as well as the number of people out and about, Morgan urged his mount faster, until the painfully familiar shadow of Westminster Abbey loomed in the distance. It was then he slowed his horse and continued at his leisure, because he was in no rush to meet his fate.
A Nautionnier Knight in service to the Crown, he had been born into a noble family with valuable connections to the House of Capet, but with equally slim coffers, in the crowded town of Rouen, on the River Seine. At the age of eight, he had been sent to La Rochelle, along with a slew of other second sons, for whom their families had no use and could ill afford, and commenced his training as a Templar, the warriors of the Crusades, at Vauclair Castle.
That was whither he forged an alliance with his lifelong friends—his brothers.
After Philip the Fair was denied entry into the estimable Order, he conspired with Pope Clement V to steal the vast treasure the knights had amassed, accused the Templars of heresy, as well as a slew of other foul crimes, hunted, tortured, and executed the great men. Naught in Morgan’s world had been the same, since he fled France and sought refuge in England.
And that was what brought him to Westminster Abbey, on that dark and dreary morrow.
At the east entrance, in the midst of a slew of coaches and horses, he drew rein and jumped to the ground. In a series of quick strides, he navigated the cloister walk, which brought him to a double-door entry topped by a Portland stone tympanum.
On the left lingered the other four knights that made up the Brethren of the Coast, along with three wives, and it was another marriage that brought him to the Chapter House steps.
“Reprehensible silk-snatcher, you are late for your own wedding.” Ever the venerable leader, Arucard scowled and folded his arms. “His Majesty was just about to dispatch a compliment of soldiers to hunt you down and drag you hither—after he installed us in the tower.”
“Have you no shame?” Lady Isolde, Arucard’s bride, wagged a finger, in reproach. So, what else was new? “Do you not realize that your behavior reflects on all the Brethren?” Then she spat on her palm and smoothed his unruly locks, adjusted his tunic, and wrinkled her nose. “Filthy swine, you reek of ale and the gutter. You do not deserve a devoted mate, much less to wear the ailette of the Brethren.”
In that they agreed.
“Fine.” Frustrated by the near-constant nagging, because he opted to embrace the English lifestyle, and its myriad indulgences, which conflicted with those of his previous Order, Morgan bared his teeth. “Because I do not want a bride. Let us return to Chichester.”
“You know, very well, that is not an option.” Demetrius assumed a position at one side. “It is your duty, by the Sire’s command, that you wed, and you will do so.”
“Because any refusal imperils us and our families.” Perched opposite Demetrius, Aristide completed the dubious escort, which was not lost on Morgan. They expected him to run, and the idea occurred to him. “So you will abide the King’s directive and honor the oath of allegiance you swore, when we were granted shelter in England, else I may kill you, myself.”
“Prithee, there is no need for violence, great one.” Lady Dionysia, Aristide’s countess, stayed him with a soft entreaty. “Sir Morgan arrived in time, thus he satisfies His Majesty’s dictate, and we are safe.”
“Pray, good sirrahs, do not spoil his special day.” Lady Athelyna resituated the ermine collar of Demetrius’s cloak and cupped his cheek. “Now smile for me, my one true knight, and I promise to ease your discomfit, this eventide.”
In the blink of an eye, Demetrius, a battle-hardened soldier with an imposing reputation on the field of glory, reduced himself to something akin to a pup savoring a treat from its master’s palm. “Ah, my lily, I will hold you to that.”
As Demetrius gazed on his spouse and grinned, Morgan feared he might vomit, because he could scarcely tolerate the sad sack of perfumed sentiment his attached brothers, save Geoffrey, had become in the wake of their nuptials. And Morgan vowed he would never suffer a similar fate.
“Well, what is the delay?” Anxious, he surveyed the throng for a glimpse of his fiancée, a diminutive and unremarkable woman, and was disappointed to spot her near the shrubbery. “Let us have done with this sorrowful event, as my patience wears thin, and I am tired.”
“Had you slept in your chamber, as would a gentleman on the eve of his wedding, you might not be so encumbered.” Frowning, Arucard peered over his shoulder. “It appears the archbishop is ready.” When Morgan stepped forward, Arucard stood tall. “Do not embarrass us, and have care with your bride, because she is forced to the altar, too.”
“Ah, but as fortune favors her, and grants her a handsome husband of renowned prowess, she benefits from the arrangement.” Morgan studied her profile and frowned. “Whereas I am at a grievous disadvantage, because I wanted the younger sister, given she is fair and excites my long sword.”
“I am going to kill him.” Just as Demetrius grabbed Morgan by the neck, the archbishop assumed his place on the steps.
“Too late.” Morgan winked and wrenched free, although death mayest have been preferable to what awaited. “I have a date with destiny.”
Mired in anger and frustration, he all but ignored his fiancée, as she moved to stand beside him. Gowned and cloaked in blue, the color of purity, which was the only thing about her that interested him, Lady Hawisia Van Goens struck him as otherwise ordinary and uninspiring.
“If Sir Morgan and Lady Hawisia will join hands.” Archbishop Reynolds studied his book of prayer and narrowed his stare. “Prithee, if the witnesses will step forward.”
While the ceremony commenced, Morgan availed himself of the opportunity to scrutinize his soon-to-be wife. With an average round face, a pert nose, unexceptional brown hair, forgettable blue eyes, and the personality of a tabletop, naught about her spoke to his lustful instincts.
From his perspective, his only hope was to look upon her as a blank canvas, to be tutored in the carnal arts, that he might find some satisfaction in life with her. Mayhap he could—
“Sir Morgan, it is your turn to respond.” The archbishop blinked and pointed to a specific passage on the page. “If you would, Sir Morgan.”
“Of course.” He cleared his throat and read the words, which held no substance for him. “From this day forward you shall not walk alone. My heart will be your shelter, and my arms will be your home.”
The singular phrase, bereft of unnecessary embellishment and affinity, yet unmistakable in its significance, proposed a pretty sentiment, which he had heard before. But for him it rang hollow, because he meant none of it. Indeed, how could he swear an oath with any scrap of honesty, when he knew not the woman and enjoyed no attraction to her?
And that was the cruelest cut, in his estimation.
Unlike Arucard, Demetrius, and Aristide, whose brides had been blessed with incomparable beauty, Lady Hawisia possessed naught to recommend her. Then he gazed at the younger sister, whose gold locks, delicate features, and shimmering blue eyes made her a popular lady and dance partner at court. Conversely, he could not recall a single instance whither he, or anyone else, for the matter, partnered the elder Van Goens.
It was then he came alert and realized the ceremony had ended, and he was married, yet he could muster no excitement for the future. Indeed, the more he reflected on the situation, the greater his anger grew.
“Felicitations, brother.” Arucard shook Morgan’s hand. “I wish you the same joy in your union that mine has brought me.”
“And I concur with Arucard’s statement.” Demetrius slapped Morgan on the back. “May you soon produce an heir, to complete His Majesty’s charge.”
That was enough to strike terror in Morgan’s heart, because he had no desire to mount his new bride.
“Why so gloomy?” Aristide chucked Morgan’s chin and waggled his brows. “Tonight, you consummate your vows, and that is reason to rejoice.”
“I know no such delight.” Morgan shuddered at the prospect. “Because none of this was my choice.”
“Brother, you know I shared your hesitation on my own wedding day.” Aristide gazed on Dionysia, as she embraced Hawisia. “But I learned to accept, welcome, and eventually appreciate the gift the King afforded me. Like Arucard and Demetrius, I am blessed. If you give your bride a chance, I wager you will be rewarded with similar happiness and content.”
“Would that that were true.” Morgan sighed.
For some reason he could not fathom, his mother’s advice, uttered so long ago, came to mind, and he considered it appropriate to the solemn occasion.
We all tell lies to ourselves, sometimes, if only to survive the consequences of our actions.
At the time, he knew not how prophetic his mother’s counsel would prove, but her wisdom helped him endure some of the darkest hours. In some ways, he had been swimming in a sea of fiction, of invention, since he was taken from his home, such that he knew not whither the truth began and the pretense ended. With each passing year, the ruse, the ploy seemed more and more difficult to maintain.
Unlike his brothers, Morgan never wanted to be a Templar Knight. He never aspired to greatness, prestige, wealth, and chastity. Rather, he planned to be a farmer, like his father, marry a provincial girl, and raise a family. He never wanted more. Perchance, that was why he found it so easy to dispense with the two and seventy tenets of the Templar Code, after the once-esteemed Order was disbanded.
Yet, even now, his fate remained inextricably intertwined with his past, functioning as a brutal trap, as he served a new master and embarked on a new chapter of his life. Still, it was not of his making or choosing. Thus he would have to create another web of deceit. To persist, he would compose a litany of falsehoods to convince himself that he could tolerate his latest predicament.
“My lord, it appears our party departs for Westminster Palace. Shall we join them?” Lady Hawisia clutched his arm, and he recoiled. “I beg your pardon, as I did not mean to startle you.”
“Come.” Grasping her by the elbow, he dragged her to the coach they were to share, as his brothers would take back the destrier, and lifted her inside. Then he climbed to the opposite seat and pounded the side. “Drive on.”
As the rig lurched forward, he stared at his bride, and she smiled.
“Despite the rain, the ceremony was lovely.” Hawisia shifted and settled her skirts. “And numerous nobles—”
“My lady wife, grant me peace, and do not speak unless I address you.”
~
Hope lingered somewhere between life and death, in the confined spaces unspoiled by man and his conventions, whither Lady Hawisia Van Goens found the freedom to be in fantasy what she would never be in truth. In the real world, whither women existed to serve men, she persisted as a captive locked in an invisible prison, desperate to think, say, and contribute something of value, if only to be heard.
It was with that thought in mind she approached her impending nuptials with a faint bit of optimism, eager to foster an amiable relationship with her groom. Bedecked in her finest gown, with a matching wimple, she expended considerable effort preparing herself, because she wanted to appear at her best for her mate, and just as quick, her new husband dashed her dreams of acceptance.
As she sat in the huge great hall at Westminster Palace, amid a sea of elegantly garbed nobles, at the table of honor, given it was her wedding celebration, she had never felt more alone in her life. Clasping her hands in her lap, she studied Sir Morgan, while he danced with her sister. Although he made it clear he welcomed no conversation with his wife, such objections did not extend to Euphemia, given their animated expressions and laughter, and she swallowed the hurt at his indifference.
“Good eventide, Lady Hawisia.” Carrying a full trencher and a goblet of wine, Lady Isolde, with Lady Dionysia and Lady Athelyna in tow, moved to a vacant chair near Hawisia. “May we join you?”
“Of course, Lady Isolde.” She met the three noblewomen at her ceremony and admired the open adoration with which their husbands greeted them but knew not what to make of the polished women. Given no one else sought her company, she was in no position to deny them an audience. “Prithee, take a seat, as there are plenty.”
“We are so delighted to make your acquaintance.” Lady Dionysia perched beside Hawisia. “As the men have long enjoyed favorable odds, at our expense, but soon we shall equal their number, and then they will have a fight on their hands.”
“Oh?” Confused, Hawisia pushed aside her untouched meal. “Forgive my ignorance, but you wish to quarrel with your husbands?”
“But you mistake her meaning.” Lady Athelyna tittered. “As we avoid contretemps with our men, whenever possible. However, it is nice to remind them, on occasion, that while they wear the armor, we rule the castle.”
None of that made sense, because the five impressive knights were veritable mountains of flesh and bone, dwarfing most of their rivals, and their presence always inspired a din of whispers and speculations. Indeed, even Hawisia wondered about their background, especially when she discovered she was to marry Sir Morgan. Although he was the smallest of the King’s mysterious warriors, that was not saying much, because he towered above Hawisia.
“I apologize, Lady Athelyna, but I do not comprehend what it is you are trying to say.” Hawisia tried to think of something rational to counter the bold declaration, because such behavior was discouraged. She even sought a humorous reflection, but naught came to her. So instead she checked on her less than attentive husband. To her chagrin, he partnered another court beauty, and she sighed. “Not that I criticize you. To be honest, I would welcome any sign of acknowledgement from Sir Morgan.” Then she flinched and cursed herself, in silence. “Forgive me, as I did not intend to say that aloud.”
“Shameless sack of ignorance. What he needs is a swift kick in the arse.” Lady Isolde glared at Morgan, and then she softened when she met Hawisia’s stare. “You poor thing. In terms of physical charm, no one disputes that Sir Morgan is the most handsome of the knights, but I would argue my Arucard is far more beauteous of spirit. And Morgan lacks judgement, I am afraid.”
“While I am loathe to speak ill of anyone, he is the worst sort of boaster, but the condition is not permanent.” Lady Dionysia snickered. “Aristide likens Morgan to a peacock, and I am in agreement. In truth, he is in dire need of a wife’s common sense.”
“And you are not the first to face a hostile spouse, as Demetrius vomited in the bushes, before everyone in attendance, just prior to our nuptials on the steps of the Chapter House.” For a moment, Lady Athelyna simply stared at Hawisia. Then she burst into laughter, as did the other ladies. “Oh, you should have been thither, as he made quite a scene, and he forbade me to speak without his permission. Now, he sings another tune that is far more pleasant to my ears, because he loves me as I love him.”
“At least you had an ally in me.” Lady Isolde shook her head. “When I married Arucard, I was the lone female amid the Nautionnier Knights, and it was as if I had inherited four sons, in the process. Believe me, we clashed more than once. Not to mention, I met Arucard in a brief exchange, just prior to taking the vows.”
“You mean you had never even seen him until then?” Hawisia gulped at the prospect, because at least she knew, in some respects, her lord and master, as they had met at court. “You never conversed or shared a letter?”
“I knew naught about him or our impending marriage until the eve of our wedding, when my father informed me of it.” Lady Isolde studied her husband, an imposing figure, and he winked at her, in a tender display of affection Hawisia envied. “But he treated me with naught but kindness, from the first, and he has persisted as my champion, ever since, so we are not novices, Lady Hawisia. And we would guide you, because we would be your friends and much more, if you let us.”
“Although you have a sister, we would also count you as such, as we are hither for you, Lady Hawisia.” Lady Dionysia clutched Hawisia’s hands, and the other ladies did the same, forming a delicate but nonetheless spirited bond of flesh and bone, and she wanted to cry. “Because we know how you feel, as we have been there, in that lonely seat.”
“We would strategize with you.” Lady Athelyna cast a mischievous grin. “We would support you, as you navigate the treacherous waters known as matrimony, that you might find bliss at the end of the battle.”
“The battle?” In discomfit, Hawisia shifted, as she was already at odds with Morgan. “Am I to oppose my husband?”
“Make no mistake, yours is a fight you cannot afford to lose, and if history is any indication, Sir Morgan will resist you, at every turn.” Lady Isolde leaned near, as if to impart a great secret. “While men are not daft, they often do their best to prove otherwise, and therein lies your advantage, because you can outplay him.”
“Indeed, because we have gone before you, you will benefit from our experience and knowledge.” Lady Dionysia lowered her chin. “Soon, you will have Sir Morgan eating from the palm of your hand, and he will express his gratitude for your benevolence.”
“How I wish I shared your confidence.” Regardless of their poise and assurances, Hawisia noticed her husband made the rotations with yet another woman who was everything she was not. “But I fear the most I can expect is that he will not treat me cruelly, and I shall serve him with distinction, as I was taught, that I would not dishonor my family or their good name. To ask for more seems an exercise in frustration and disappointment.”
“No.” Lady Isolde shook her head. “You could not be more wrong, as our knights are the best of men, and Sir Morgan is no different. He only lacks the proper incentive, and I swear, on my firstborn, he will gift you his heart.”
“So all is not lost.” Lady Athelyna cast a sympathetic countenance. “No matter how dark the situation appears, you can find a love match, just like we enjoy.”
“And that is wherefore we are so happy to have you as part of our family.” Again, Lady Isolde reached across the table and grasped Hawisia’s hand. “I know it seems a daunting prospect, as you have scarcely uttered the vows, but each of us has walked in your slippers, and we are hither to give you hope.”
Thus Hawisia came full circle.
“Hope? How is that possible, when we were forced to the altar, and he cannot abide to look at me?” Still, she clung to a measure of faith, because to surrender meant a lifetime of misery served in a box not of her making or choosing. Yet, she could not summon courage to sustain her, and tears welled. “Pray, excuse me.”
Pushing through the crowd, Hawisia located a dimly lit corridor and fled the prying eyes of court. A small alcove offered shelter, and she shuffled inside to obscure herself amid the shadows.
It was then she let go the pain and wept, because she did so aspire to something more with Sir Morgan, and she knew not how to commence married life with a man who, for all intents and purposes, detested her. Yet, they were bound for eternity, and there was naught she could do to change it.
A sudden commotion had her shrinking further into the recess, just as Sir Arucard dragged Sir Morgan into the passage.
“What is wrong with you?” Sir Arucard slapped Sir Morgan’s ear. “How can you be so careless with your wife, when you just pledged an oath to protect and defend her?”
“So I did, but I never promised to dance with her.” Morgan rubbed his offended appendage. “And as I made clear at Chichester, when you gave me the news of my scheduled wedding, I wanted the younger sister.”
Had Hawisia thought she suffered?
In that moment, she leaned against the cold, stone surface, bit her bottom lip to stifle a forthcoming scream, and clenched her fists.
“Thus you insult your bride in front of everyone, including His Majesty, when she is blameless?” Arucard shoved Morgan against the wall. “We gave our word, in exchange for asylum, and you will not break it. I do not care what you want. If you endanger Isolde and our children, thither is no place you could hide, no way to escape me.”
“You need not remind me, brother.” Morgan bared his teeth. “As I know precisely what we surrendered to save our necks, and I submit we are already dead, so your threats are wasted on me.”
“You know not of what you speak, because you approach the marriage bed from a perspective of ignorance, vanity run amok, and unparalleled selfishness. You have no idea what is possible, what can be achieved between you and your mate, if you would stop thinking with your longsword and use your head.” Arucard scowled and thrust Morgan aside. “Our ancestors must be rolling in their graves, to see what you have reduced yourself to in so short a span of time, despite their tutelage, but you will not disparage Lady Hawisia, else I will defend her, along with Aristide and Demetrius.”
Touched by Lord Arucard’s consideration, when they were but strangers, she wiped her face and stiffened her spine, because she had no real choice. In the wake of Morgan’s injurious declaration, she recalled Lady Isolde’s words of encouragement and an idea formed and took shape.
Aye, the archbishop had taken her name, and soon Morgan would claim her body. From her position, naught belonged to her—not even her life. She was but property, an object—a thing to be controlled, shackled, and confined by a man who wanted her not. So she would play the role Morgan wanted, only she would alter the narrative, and she would survive.
As for his heart, it interested her not.
Resolved to forge her own path, and make her parents proud, Hawisia formed a plan of action to succeed as Morgan’s wife. Riding a wave of renewed confidence, she sprang forth. “Grammarcy, Lord Arucard, as your kindness and concern is much appreciated but unnecessary, given I understand my husband’s opposition.”
“Lady Hawisia.” Lord Arucard cast an expression of shock and retreated a step. “Apologies, as I knew not of your presence, else I would have tempered my discussion.”
“There is no need for an apology, my lord, as you are the soul of charity.” The look on Morgan’s face brought her a measure of retribution, as he appeared to have swallowed his tongue, and she pinned her husband with her stare. “In fact, I take no offense, and I would have Sir Morgan know we are of like minds, because I had no wish to marry him, either.”